


Who's a Super Success? Don't You Know? Can't You Guess?

by thetrumpetsareblowing



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crack, Cursed, I'm so sorry, Literal Worst Thing I Have Ever Written, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Idea Came To Me In The Shower So I Had To
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28818477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetrumpetsareblowing/pseuds/thetrumpetsareblowing
Summary: The Archivist finds an odd statement in the 2010s section that should be in the 1990s section. He reads it.
Kudos: 12





	Who's a Super Success? Don't You Know? Can't You Guess?

**[Click]**

Statement of....Gaston. No first name given. Regarding...eggs. Original statement given September 29th, 1991. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

When I was a lad, we had a chicken farm. I think that's where it all started. 

We could have been very, very rich, what with the amount of chickens we had, if Mother had not fed me so many eggs. She insisted that every morning, I must eat four dozen eggs. "To help me get large," she said. As a result of this, there were never many eggs left over to sell. I tried not to eat the eggs, to hide some away to sell, but she caught on to what I was doing pretty early on and forced me to continue to eat my four dozen every morning. "To help you get large" was all she'd say in answer to my complaints. There was always a glazed expression when she said this, as if she didn't quite see me.

My father began spending less and less time with the chickens as I grew older, and more time hunting. He began to take me with him sometimes. He taught me well. I'm a jolly good shot, as a result of this. What you do to kill a deer is you sneak up behind, and carefully aim for the liver. Works everytime. Some people say it's not fair, but I don't see _t_ _hem_ getting to use antlers in all of _their_ decorating. But due to ny father spending so much time getting caught up in the thrill of the hunt, he came home less and less. I grew up a rather lonely child. 

I guess you could say that's why I tried so hard as an adult. As soon as she deemed I was grown, my mother began to make me eat five dozen eggs every morning, with that same faraway look in her eyes as if she couldn't really see me. I guess you could say I'm roughly the size of a barge, now. 

The people of my hometown began to notice me. They set in front of me challenge after challenge. Spitting matchs. "No one spits like Gaston," they would tell me, before setting a mug ten feet away from me, and yet they would still cheer "Ten points for Gaston!" when it went in. 

I took up wrestling. "No one fights like Gaston", they told me. No one bites like Gaston either. That's the secret to winning. 

I would entertain them in the tavern in the evenings, making up songs to sing to drunken old men. "Who has brains like Gaston, entertains like Gaston?" they would ask, trying to find someone who could match me wit for wit. "Who can make up these endless refrains like Gaston?"

They all loved me. But no one ever saw me. All they saw is what I could do for them: flex muscles, crack a joke. But I had all their adoration, and that was the absolute worst part.

I couldn't even talk to anyone about it. They should just laugh. I was supposed to be the one guy in town who had all of it down. I wasn't _lonely_. I didn't have problems. I was Gaston!

And yet. They didn't notice when I began to disappear. All they noticed was their rowdy nights in the tavern just weren't the same anymore. All they noticed was the supply of venison to the marketplace drying up. 

It was ironically fitting that first morning when I noticed that no one in my whole town could see me. Or hear me. I was gone from the world, and the worst part was I didn't even care. I was just a man among men who didn't see me. 

And so I came here. I wrote my statement. I hope you read it soon. The farther I come from my hometown the more people seem to see me, yet I know it will catch up with me. 

Statements ends. 

It's a testament to the disorganisation of Gertrude Robinson that this statement was never followed up on. I tried to get Tim to do some research, as Martin is still off sick, but how much research can you do on someone from rural France in the early 90s, without even a first name? Yet somehow, Tim found some record of a Gaston chicken farm that was never very successful. It was owned by an elderly couple, who never had any children.

I think it's awfully convenient that this Gaston person simply "disappeared". It makes his story unverifiable, and frankly there is nothing in it that could possibly make me inclined to believe it. 

However, an unidentified body matching the description of someone "the size of a barge" was found in the moat of a castle in rural France, about a week after this statement was given. It does make one wonder...

Recording ends. 

**[Click]**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank? you? for reading this??


End file.
